Republic Reborn: Against the Stars and Stripes-Chapter 43: Friendly Competition

Two very different units—but of the same allegiance—stood at the same beach where I had held my marksmanship training more than a week ago.

At the sight of me and Vicente emerging from the coconuts and ferns, the soldiers scrambled into formation.

The first group, led by Teniente Ronaldo Dimalanta, was composed of twenty-four men assigned to me by Heneral Torres as escorts. They wore the complete standard uniform of the Republic’s regular units—from the rayadillo jackets to the ammunition pouches, down to the polished boots.

Dimalanta’s group looked dangerous, armed with Mausers, and they looked the part with how they snappily and neatly arranged themselves at the authoritative instruction of their officers.

The second group was led by my brother-in-law Pedro Madrigal. They were twice the number but significantly less intimidating. Just as I had left them, they still wore the plain white uniforms used in the revolt against Spain, remained barefoot, and still carried single-shot Remington rifles.

They were well-drilled, but compared to the Bulaceños, they were a little less sharp.

As I approached, Dimalanta and the NCOs stiffened.

"¡Atención!" the lieutenant barked, and boots snapped as the soldiers of my escolta stood at attention.

Dimalanta proceeded to salute, confidently looking up at me as I rode past, "Heneral Lardizabal!"

I responded with a nod and continued toward the other group.

Pedro nervously glanced at me, looking as if he was about to say something. In the end, he gave me a simple, silent salute. That was a relief. The awkwardness would have killed us both. Just the other week, I was merely his brother-in-law and a symbolic governor to whom they didn’t owe real allegiance. Now I was their general—their direct superior.

They would need some time to get accustomed to the change.

Colonel Abad was waiting at the end of the line and gave me a casual salute. He looked sharp in the rayadillo uniform I had given him yesterday. All that was missing were the shoulder patches for his rank—and maybe a matching peaked cap.

He assisted me as I got off the horse.

"At your orders, everyone who underwent your marksmanship training is here," said Colonel Abad, visibly in high spirits. "So what are we doing today, Heneral?"

I smirked, realizing it was the first time he had addressed me with my new rank.

"A little firing session for the troops, Coronel," I replied.

I instructed them to place targets along the shoreline, just like during our training. Only now, there were two sets of ten tin cans—one set twenty meters in front of each group. Then I asked for their best marksmen to form a line.

The soldiers glanced at each other, starting to realize a competition was about to unfold—between the Bulaceños and the Marinduqueños.

Teniente Dimalanta began selecting from among his ranks, and each name he called confidently stepped forward. On Pedro’s side, he let his soldiers work it out among themselves. It took a while before ten willing volunteers stepped up.

"This is a friendly competition," I reminded them. "The goal is for everyone’s improvement. The rule is simple: the group that knocks down their tin cans with the fewest volleys wins. The winning soldiers will each get three pesos."

Smiles began to spread among the ranks, and excited murmurs followed.

"I see what you’re doing, Don Martin," Vicente said as the three of us—he, the Coronel, and I—stepped back to a safe distance. "You trained them well last week, sure. But these Bulaceños are Heneral Torres’ best. They might have even been trained by Major Bugallon or Heneral Luna themselves."

"You’re from Bulacan, so naturally you’re rooting for the Bulaceños. And I’m from here, so I’m a little partial to the Marinduqueños," I grinned. "Want to bet?"

"I don’t have money," he said matter-of-factly.

I thought for a moment. "How about we bet our pistols?"

"You’re that confident?" Vicente sniggered. "All right. That’s a terrible decision you just made."

The Marinduqueños went first. Pedro looked nervous as he tried to encourage his soldiers, ending up sounding more like a rookie baseball coach than a military officer. The fact that he hadn’t been present for the marksmanship training—he had been conducting a recruitment drive in Mogpog that week—probably added to his unease.

Asynchronously, the Marinduqueño soldiers raised their rifles. Pedro raised a hand.

"¡Fuego!"

The first volley rang out. Several hollow clangs followed the gunshots.

I had expected them to nearly wipe all the targets. The actual result was disappointing—they only hit five cans on the first pull of the trigger. They were showing rust. I wondered whether Colonel Abad had continued the drills while I was away.

The five who missed reloaded and fired again. This second volley dropped four more cans. One soldier still couldn’t bring his down.

He clumsily reloaded, trembling slightly under the pressure. Pedro let him take his time. The lone shot cracked, and finally, the last can fell.

"An Orbea Hermano," Vicente muttered, eyeing my holster like a dog under the dinner table. "I could really use an upgrade. And I think you won’t need it as much as I do. You’re a general now—you won’t be doing much fighting. Besides, you can afford a replacement."

I only smiled. I really liked that gun. And now, I wasn’t confident I could keep it—or get my point across with this competition.

Teniente Dimalanta glanced at us with a smug expression and gave a slight nod. It was my escolta’s turn.

"¡Apunten!"

In unison, and with one quick motion, the rifles were raised to the shoulder.

"¡Fuego!"

The high-pitched crack of the Mausers echoed in the air. Then—a single, weak metallic clunk. Only one of the cans had been grazed.

Pedro let out a loud cackle, which he immediately remembered to suppress.

In the awkward silence, Dimalanta cleared his throat. "Alright... with the rust out of our system... let’s get this over with."

Bolt handles clicked, spent cartridges ejected, and the rifles aimed again. This time, Teniente Dimalanta let a good five seconds pass.

"¡Fuego!"

The silence that followed the fading gunshots was deafening. The Bulaceños had squarely hit the water and the sand. Not a single bullet touched a can.

The Marinduqueños were polite enough not to laugh aloud—but they were huddling and howling silently, shoulders shaking as they tried to suppress their amusement. Pedro looked my way, and I couldn’t help but return his oafish grin.

"How shameful! I’ve seen blind men with better aim!" Teniente Dimalanta huffed, shaking his head. "We are getting beaten by a backwater militia!"

His insult gave them just enough fire to improve slightly. Their third and final volley was their best—three cans hit—but with six still standing, the competition was over.

Pedro’s men began cheering while the soldiers from the escolta watched them in silence, their bright confidence, gone.

It had just been a guess. Drills and theory could be copied from manuals captured from the Spanish, sure. But only experienced officers could teach the hands-on techniques. Officers, which the Republic sorely lacked. That was why I hadn’t been entirely impressed by the drills and formations in Malolos.

I tapped Vicente’s back. "I win. But you can keep your trash revolver, Teniente."